


let them eat chaos

by mirabilis



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Time Skip, Slow Burn, author uses extended metaphors and regrets nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23624875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirabilis/pseuds/mirabilis
Summary: Standing between God and Ozymandias himself, Kiyoomi forges the remains of the boy who once challenged the Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium and lost.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 22
Kudos: 186
Collections: SakuAtsu Week 2020





	let them eat chaos

**Author's Note:**

> hello! i have returned after a fierce dance battle with the devil to provide you a fic for sakuatsu week  
> tw: blood, and references of anxiety and mysophobia  
> day 7: safe/home

Imagine you, standing in the splendor of the Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium, soaked in the luster of his well-being. Take into consideration the individual particles of sweat that flow on the epidermis of his skin. Conceive the following, every droplet that falls in vast quantities dribbles down his forehead. 

Sakusa Kiyoomi pays no attention to the particles of sweat, if he closes his eyes when he wakes up they’ll still be there. Kiyoomi thinks about Miya Atsumu wedged between immortality and the mass devastation of loss, is there such comfort in encouraging the enemy that lies across the net. But to Kiyoomi, there is a fine line of dust that cascades to the shiny floor that must’ve been sanitized once but waxed too many times to be able to count on his fingers. 

Kiyoomi’s mind races along the track, round and around, what would Atsumu do next? His hand trembles, clenching his shirt between the squeeze of his fist. Atsumu’s altar of significant pride and merit erodes over time, leaving two vast and trunk-less legs of stone. The shrine buckles, the ghost of a whisper. 

Standing between God and Ozymandias himself, Kiyoomi forges the remains of the boy who once challenged the Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium and lost.

To Kiyoomi, for victory that gets thrown his way, defeat crawls up his skin and after his last game of his high school career, he counts the spaces between every tile of the gym. He gets interrupted at number 1,100 by Komori who hauls him figuratively, granola bar tucked in his mouth. 

Atsumu’s fist releases the tightened fabric, and he hangs his head high. Yer not watching me are ya Omi-kun? Atsumu says, eyes razor sharp, and in that stupefying horrendous accent of his. 

No, you’re not worth my time. 

Atsumu humphs, carding four fingers through his hair, I’ll see ya soon and when I do, I’ll beat yer ass. 

Kiyoomi doesn’t count on it, because he’ll never see him again. 

Standing between God and Ozymandias, Kiyoomi gathers the ashes of the fallen. Kiyoomi does not want to see Atusmu again. 

*

Two years later, Kiyoomi sees Atsumu again. 

Atsumu becomes a full-fledged creature of the court, taller, broader, and Kiyoomi is even more disgusted. Atsumu wears a mask of enlightenment on his face, as it mixes with that wicked grin that could penetrate glass and Kiyoomi is further revolted. 

“Sakusa Kiyoomi.” 

Kiyoomi stops at the edge of the court, he’s five feet from ten-thousand molecules of germs in a new environment, if he takes any step closer he’ll be infected. So he waits, as Atsumu leers closer and Kiyoomi paces back. 

“Atsumu.” he says, as he grabs a ball in a nearby cart, bacteria spreading in contact with his skin, spreading up his palms across his elbow like a skittish mouse. 

“Sakusa Kiyoomi, we meet again.” Atsumu’s bashful glance digs into the hypodermis of his skin, and Kiyoomi stares off in the opposite direction. 

Kiyoomi does not want to converse with Atsumu, it’ll be a waste of energy and judging from the grotesque facade he wears, Atsumu plans on crumbling his insides to the point of decay. “How unfortunate.” 

His teeth are pearl white and scream, I use colgate whitening stripes and I’m sexy. No you’re not, you’re just a pain in my ass. Kiyoomi’s focus trains on the ball(molten, green, white and red patterned) in his hands(unusually large, surprisingly soft looking). 

“I’m going to call ya Omi-kun, it rolls easier on the tongue than ‘Sakusa Kiyoomi’” he exaggerates the vowels of his name, dragging on his name longer than necessary. Each syllable sits in a chair, pacing through Osamu Dazai’s novel— No Longer Human. The syllable stands up from the rocketing chair with it’s long legs and waits for its turn. “Don’t ya think Omi-kun?” 

“No.” 

Atsumu eats up the tension, like a starving weed desperate to leech the proteins off of a wealthy, salubrious flower. He’s a fucking weed left in the grass, gone untended and he will grow bigger become a stronger threat to the budding oasis of insanity. Kiyoomi chews up the tension, letting the raw texture crawl freely in his mouth before he spits it in front of Atsumu’s feet. 

Kiyoomi sees tethers of tension unravel on the floor, creating a pathway between the two of them. So he grabs a pair of scissors and cuts him off. Atsumu chipped grin slices in half like a loaf of bread. “Lemme set ya, it’s been a while.” 

Ten thousand contagious particles of germs stretch across the surface of the molten standard red and green volleyball, moving and scoping Kiyoomi’s skin like a target. It’s best if he stayed away. 

Kiyoomi wipes his hands, “No.” 

But because Atsumu is a Colgate-whitening toothpaste eating monster that challenged God in the lowest depth of the nurtured earth the altar stands upon, he can’t take no for an answer. “That wasn’t a yes or no question.” 

“Then, no thank you.” Good for you Kiyoomi, you can say more than three words per sentence, he would chomp his head off. Atsumu and his disgusting laugh that tastes like sour clementines you’d find in your garden. Only when you pluck them and bite into their cracked skin, you discover that they’re tart and spit them out. Atsumu Miya is a sour clementine and Kiyoomi wants to spit him out until there’s nothing left to identify his body.

But Atsumu knows this, he knows almost everything about him. “Yer gonna regret it Omi-kun.” he clicked his tongue at him like a disappointed mother disciplining his misbehaving child. 

He doubts that. Kiyoomi’s altar is a mid-century modern cottage built of regrets, and never has Atsumu stormed his door and broke inside and demanded to be placed at the number one spot. 

He swore he could hear Atsumu’s hyena laugh bounce off the walls of the gym and he wanted to reach into his larynx and hurtle his esophagus across the room. 

Maybe Kiyoomi could get away with murder. 

*

Kiyoomi does not commit murder. 

Though he thinks about it pensively, and instead buys a new laundry detergent since the old one he’d been previously using began to make his skin itch. It was unusual for him to oppose the itch that stretches across his skin, thinking about robbing him at three in the morning. Some days(most nights) the itch knocks on his brick door, asking to be let in. It stands on his two legs and trips on his own two feet. Kiyoomi is defenseless, he has no personal vendetta against them. 

The laundry detergent reeks of cherry blossoms and old sweaty socks. He scrubs his t-shirts in the liquid until it’s drowning and can’t breathe. Kiyoomi does not use the detergent again. He throws it into the back of the cupboards below his sink. Kiyoomi resorts back to his laundry detergent and the world moves on without him. Atsumu Miya continues to torment rabbits, and buys new Colgate whitening stripes. 

(He knows because unfortunately they’re neighbors and Kiyoomi has been compelled into having the pleasure of listening to him mutter the Pokemon theme song every morning while he brushes his teeth—minty Colgate toothpaste).

You stop by the convenience store, the next night after the first practice. Decisions are weighed in your palm like a balance. Kiyoomi stands between the deli aisle and milk aisle, he identifies the toothpaste, briefly scrutinizes between his other choices. Then you think of Atsumu Miya and his minty Colgate whitening stripes and toothpaste and a smile that could rival a fox. You choose the fluoride toothpaste, and pay with cash. Kiyoomi would not let Atsumu occupy his mind. 

*

Kiyoomi leaves Komori on open, for the sake of the fact he knows he’ll persistently continue to bug him until he responds. His friend--or at least that’s what Komori classifies them as after three years of supposed friendship. He also ignores his call after the text, which is followed by another call. But he can’t ignore him, and his buzzing phone is beginning to shake his bed. Kiyoomi is unassertive, but picks up the phone and punches the green button. 

“Stop calling me.” at least he initiated the conversation, and Komori chuckles from the other line. 

Komori, much like most people Kiyoomi is forced to spend his athletic pursuits, enjoys goading him for eternity. He seems hell bent on ensuring that Kiyoomi never experiences distance or personal space. Which, to him, isn't out of the ordinary considering his heinous new roommate next door. 

He can hear the squeaking sounds of shoes, and he can almost sink into the ground at peace with the pulchritudinous vibrations. He chases the sound down and tackles it to the ground. Presumably, he’s still at practice and Komori quickly hollers into the distance before returning to Kiyoomi. “I think you like it, since I’m the only one who makes sure you haven’t dropped off the face of the earth.” 

Sakusa’s finger hangs over the tempting red button, that would be stupid of him, but over the course of Sakusa’s life, he’s committed and witnessed idiotic phenomenons. He doesn’t end the call and chooses to listen, “how Samaritan of you Komori.” 

He can hear the smile that lingers too long on his face, how typical of him. “Well, have you?” he pokes his tongue into his inner cheek. “Dropped off the face of the earth?”

Sakusa wryly makes an inhumane noise that was meant to be a chuckle, “I wouldn’t be here, talking with you and wasting my time if I did would I?” 

Komori’s end of the line begins to crackle, shouts emerge into a big bubble of nothingness. “I have to go, but thank you for taking your time to answer my call, it’s nice to know you’re alive.” 

“I won’t answer next time.” 

Komori huffs a laugh, because that’s utter bullshit. And both of them know better than anyone else that Kiyoomi will answer. But his laugh rings affectionate as he virtually rolls his eyes. 

Kiyoomi can’t prove this, but in case you didn’t realize: Kiyoomi is psychic. 

“Sure you won’t.” 

The line goes dead. It’s only him, the demons under his bed and the singularity of bacteria that strikes Kiyoomi across the face. You shouldn’t have answered that. I know. I know, he replies. 

*

Kiyoomi enjoys the retrospect of his life that he hides in his pantry, right behind the rice vinegar and panko his mother insisted he owns as he was becoming a cultivated adult and it was a prerequisite that Kiyoomi leave his house to buy pantry essentials. Retrospect rebirths itself every day, stuck to the bottom of his feet. Even Kiyoomi can’t rinse away the past that peels to the edge of his skin. 

Birth is an atrocious sight to hold in your arms. Birth stems from the lesser known and Kiyoomi must say, he will never experience it. Birth is growth, growth starts cryptic and takes flight like Metamorphosis. But if Metamorphosis saw the disorder birth fabricated, he would dispel him. Kiyoomi stands in the fleeting moments between metamorphosis, it gently caresses the strip of his leg where skin and the air catches the patches of exposed hair particles and floats away. Kiyoomi dares to run. But it catches him in a threshold and grins a Cheshire smile that stretches across the Atlantic ocean. You can’t run, Metamorphosis lasciviously purrs. 

Kiyoomi does not run. He purchases a bullet journal, with a moleskin cover, cheap and from the dollar store owned by the eighty-nine year old grandmother who forgets his name. He sets it on the beside of his nightstand. Retrospect leaps out of the pages and Kiyoomi neatly rips the plastic binding and throws it in the trash. Inside the bullet journal, he leaves it empty. 

He buys a bullet journal and never ends up using it. What's the point of documenting a lifetime of experiences that you worked so hard to bury. Kiyoomi deviates. Life does not move on. Life honks its horn at him, and tells him to hurry the fuck up. Life harbors outside your doorstep with a basket of homemade brownies and welcomes you into the neighborhood.

Unfortunately, you do not welcome life back. 

* 

Kiyoomi has never hurt puppies, he’s never stolen or murdered anyone. Atsumu probably hurts kittens for sport, steals grandma’s teeth and fights Ozymandias on a daily basis because he gets bored. Kiyoomi is a good person, Atsumu is not. 

Atsumu is also attempting to break into his house. Atsumu does not look guilty, is that the look he has when he tortures innocent animals? He seems to be prying Kiyoomi’s very much bolted lock with no success. Atsumu steals little children’s lollipops with his cold, slimy hands. Kiyoomi nears his apartment, stuffing his phone into the pocket of his jacket. Ode to Joy pauses, and the world is on heroin. 

“Omi-kun, always a pleasure.” The world recovers and enters rehab and no longer is addicted to heroin. Atsumu is still in front of him. 

Kiyoomi observes and Atsumu gapes like a puckered fish out of water. “Can’t say the same.” Atsumu is pleased. However, Kiyoomi is going to call the police on him. “Why are you breaking into my apartment?” 

Atsumu studies him, too much and for too long. “It’s not breakin’ in if I’m welcomed inside.” 

“I’m not letting you in.” with his own key, Kiyoomi timidly opens the door and Atsumu sticks his foot out. “You’re not coming inside.” he repeats. 

Atsumu’s eyebrows droop and he assimilates an extremely poor resemblance to a kicked puppy, probably like all the ones he used to hurt. “Be a good teammate and let me in, will ya?” Kiyoomi does not let him in. Atsumu’s foot continues to be crushed by the door. If Kiyoomi were to display any emotion, it would be hubris. Since Kiyoomi is humble, he remains silent and lets Atsumu’s bones break. 

Somehow, with the power of (not) God on his side, the door opens and Atsumu enters his apartment. Kiyoomi debates dialing the police department, but by the time the police were to arrive, Kiyoomi would be found dead, cause of death: indignation. 

Atsumu’s eyes glow like he’s taking a stroll through an amusement park and he’s set his eyes on the largest ride in the park. A kid greedy for hunger and dauntless for adventure. Maybe Atsumu is a child, residing inside the body of a twenty-three year old homeless man. 

“Wow, yer house is clean. It’s almost like no one even lives here.” Atsumu comments on the obvious, and Kiyoomi roughly muses on biting back in the sake of his own home being invaded, tenfold. 

Kiyoomi decides not to bite back, just this once. “I just moved in.” 

“Right, right.” Atsumu echoes empty words, stirring up the pot of sinister ideas that run through his brain. 

“And now you can leave.” 

Atsumu smiles, it’s dangerous and Kiyoomi wanted to tear it down. “Do ya really think you can get rid of me that easily?” Yes.

“Yes.” 

He sighs, “I’ll leave, but on one condition.” 

Kiyoomi does not hold his breath, because Atsumu is not worth holding his breath for. “What is it?” 

“You’ll let me in next time.” Atsumu Miya is in no position to be making negotiations, but he challenges God and therefore believes he will stand atop watching peasants succumb to their true stature. 

“As if.” 

You lie for the first time in years. You lie for a stranger, who is not a stranger but a foe. You watch him leave, and Metamorphosis hides behind the door waiting to laugh in your face. 

*

Kiyoomi meets Atsumu at the tender age of seventeen. He meets him under the crumbling altar that defines the true nature of their talent. He has an ugly attitude, disguised by a sweet smile that disappears in the blink of an eye. Kiyoomi is immediately disgusted by many attributes of his warding personality. He is a perfectionist, for someone who appears to hand-built the cardboard castle he rules, Atsumu is a disaster. 

It begins at sixteen when he hears the name Atsumu Miya. Kiyoomi’s disgust is inaudible but it expands through his chest, it’s silent presence remains hidden. Atsumu is a shadow of a whisper hiding in the dark. He’s dismissive, but he demands to shine in the damn stage lights. He strolls onto the court with immeasurable confidence and shakes the whole stage until the audience is in shambles. 

Kiyoomi ignores him for a year. Until they wound up in the training camp together and karma twists his insides and punctures a hole in his lungs. 

Atsumu, who was once a nobody, fortitude's his own path, and arose into somebody. Kiyoomi decides to hate him. 

The rest is history, a tall tale for the young and elderly. But you shelter the story under the weight of your shoulders. The story is meant for you, and you only. 

What will you do now? 

*

Kiyoomi’s broken promise apparently went over Atsumu’s head as he interrupted his night of peaceful solitude. It’s late, too late but his floor is absolute mayhem. With Bokuto and Hinata rooming together three doors down, it feels as if they’re right next to him. Fantastic. 

He allows himself to turn the knob and willingly open the door for Atsumu. He’s an eyesore, and Kiyoomi nearly closes the door on him. Come on Omi-kun, ya can’t reject me now. Watch me. 

“It’s late, what are you doing here?” 

Atsumu lifts a devastatingly greasy plastic take out bag. “You must be hungry Omi-kun.” He can't say no now, his stomach is rumbling and it’s been hours since he last ate. It would be a bad idea to reject him. 

Well, are you doing to let me in, his face lilts with upstanding horror. That's how Kiyoomi perceives his altered expression—cunning, like a large fox strutting into your yard to eat the rabbits in the cage. Kiyoomi does let him in, and Atsumu’s lip stretches from ear to ear in victory. 

“The only reason why I’m letting you inside is because you have food.” Kiyoomi says, was that meant to be consolation for him or Atsumu. 

Atsumu rolls his eyes, striding past Kiyoomi to set the food down on the nearest kitchen counter, “sure, sure, whatever helps you sleep at night Omi-kun.” 

Kiyoomi stops him from opening the plastic bag, “you smell like you dunked yourself in shit, clean up first.” he wrinkles his nose, bacteria inches closer to him and birth ties him down with chains. 

Atsumu’s lips dramatically puckers, “but my apartment is so far away.” he whines. For someone so eager to take the crown, he’s a fucking sloth and only Kiyoomi is aware of it. He locks the information in the bottom bunker below ground and hopes no one ever discovers the truth. Lies. 

You want everyone to encounter the hideous side of Atsumu Miya. It’s the secret you want to keep to yourself. 

Admit it, you are selfish. 

“There are fresh towels in my bathroom, use the shower. You’re not allowed to step back in here until you take a shower, you smell like ass.” 

Atsumu hmphs, has he finally been drained in his own defeat? “I didn’t know Omi-kun had such a potty mouth.” 

“Stop acting childish and get in the shower Miya.” 

Ah, that was new. Kiyoomi has never called him that before. In fact he doesn’t even think he’s actually addressed by his name, because he’ll never recognize him as a human being. But Miya is what you call somebody if you’re invited to the family picnic and bring the dish of coleslaw and announce to the family that you’re dating. Your aunt would bring the cold chicken pasta that everyone eats but they’re too scared to admit how terrible it tastes. ‘Miya’ is sentimental, filling the top of the fish bowl with devotion. Atsumu didn’t have the human capabilities to experience sentimentality. 

Atsumu Miya’s smirk transforms beyond unspeakable terms, and Kiyoomi—no. “Where’s yer bathroom?” Atsumu asks, but he can see the words he wants to speak slice through his tongue. 

“First door to the right.” 

*

Kiyoomi regrets his decision. 

Atsumu _parades_ through the living room and into the bathroom like he’s marking his territory, surveying every detail of Kiyoomi’s apartment. Once the bathroom door closes, Kiyoomi continues to breathe. He cleaned the shower earlier, scrubbed the toilet thirty-two times until his middle finger bled ironically. He was running out of band aids. He should add that to the list in his bullet journal(spoiler alert: he doesn’t). The shower head turns on finally after an eternity of waiting, and Kiyoomi resorts to dusting off the dirt on his table. It’s clean, shiny that he can see his own reflection. Your finger reopens, you start to bleed. The water still runs, and you count every second that passes by. 

Kiyoomi uses pre wrap to re-bandage his wound. He still doesn’t add bandaids to his list. He sweeps the kitchen, before returning his attention back to the dusty table. The water turns off, and Metamorphosis is on a lull. Atsumu peeks his head out from the door, he spys a bare leg emerging from the corner. “You got extra clothes?” Oh. He didn’t think this part through. It can’t be that bad, he couldn’t have smelled that rachid. Metamorphosis slashes your chest, and reminds you of the thousands of particles of dirt that could’ve traveled and bounced onto Atsumu in less than a day. 

He scours through his closet, digging out the first clean pair of sweatpants. He pulls a crew-neck from his drawer and then awkwardly laughs to himself. Without looking he grabs a pair of boxers and almost throws up in his mouth. Knocking on the door, Atsumu’s arms inwardly reach out like he’s praying. He dumps the clothes on his arms and the door immediately shuts close. His skin itches, and he goes to the sink and approximately rinses his hands ten times. It’s a ritual, the spiritual connection between the universe he walks on and his hands. He finally washes the blood on his middle finger. 

Atsumu finally comes out of the bathroom after ten years and the apartment chews him up and spits him out the balcony. His hair is wet, droplets flickering down Kiyoomi’s shirt. It’s his shirt, god Kiyoomi must’ve been feeling extremely charitable today to suffer. Kiyoomi really likes to put himself through the eternal suffering of Atsumu Miya.

“Let’s eat Omi-kun.” Atsumu says, and Kiyoomi goes to grab plates and chopsticks(both cleaned roughly five times each). 

Atsumu rips open the plastic bag, instead of unwinding the knot that ties the handles together. It appears to be a variety of small dishes from the small-joint Japanese cuisine from across the street. Atsumu throws a bit of everything on his plate: rice, yakitori, shrimp tempura, udon noodles, and fatty tuna. He starts devouring it all, he really is a monster. 

Atsumu takes a stab at looking away from his plate like he’s about to bow on his knee and proposes to open his rice-filled mouth, “are ya gonna eat, ish’ good, take as much as you’d like.” Kiyoomi feels like vomiting, and his gut churns like butter. 

“Swallow before you speak, you’re disgusting.” Kiyoomi lethargically spoons himself some rice. Wrist flicking expertly without making a mess and Atsumu conveintally snorts, rice spewing out of his mouth. 

Atsumu swallows, thank god, before speaking, “don’t be so uptight Omi-kun, live a little.” you should be the last person on this entire earth to tell me to live a little. 

He tentatively takes a bite, chews for a minute and swallows. Atsumu’s eyes train on him like a hawk, zeroing in on every move he makes. Is he waiting for an answer, he’s not Gordon Ramsey for god's sake. 

“It’s good.” 

Atsumu delightfully smiles, a ginormous smile that could put a kangaroo's pouch to shame. “Can’t ya be more articulate than that, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say more than three words in a sentence.” 

“I’m surprised you even know how to properly use the word articulate in a sentence.” Kiyoomi digests his every expression, the humor that trickles in riplets and melts like wax, falls on the floor. 

Atsumu shakes his head, water droplets that still remain on his scalp fly. He is amused. Kiyoomi is not. “And he cracks jokes. Omi-kun, see, this why I want to get to know you better.” 

“No you don’t.” he instantly replies. 

Because Atsumu fought god on a singular orange court and lost, he eats up the challenge like a twinkie. And those are too sweet, but what does that say about Atsumu Miya? 

“I do.” watch me. The whole world is watching you Atsumu, what are you waiting for? 

You. 

Kiyoomi quietly stuffs his mouth with udon noodles. 

*

Something changes. Kiyoomi still cleans his toilet thirty-two times, never ends up buying band aids, and asks Shouyou for his spare dragon-ball z band aids which he gladly lends. He takes three and uses them in the span of a day. But he doesn’t want to disturb Shouyou further, and returns to pre wrap. Atsumu still bugs him to death, bothers him to no end. But it’s different, Atsumu is quieter off the court. Different is idiosyncratic, it’s a fool that begs for money and shelter as the luxurious walk passes by and mocks him for his misfortunes. Last time Kiyoomi checked, Atsumu was not unfortunate. He has Ozymandias groveling and begging for his reign of terror to end, even god serves him a pina colada on his vacation days. 

But Atsumu throws the cocktail in God's face because it didn’t come with a pink umbrella like he requested. 

The whole team is showering after the game, they win of course. But the satisfaction never resurfaces with the sugary exhilaration as it did when he was in high school. Kiyoomi does not push satisfaction beyond its competencies. Ten minutes-is the time he takes to shower, he waits for the rest of his team to shower. He does not use the public showers provided by the gymnasium their team uses. He’s alone in the locker room, standing on the brittled floor by the sea shore. There’s one shower still running, Atsumu’s heap of clothing haphazardly on top of his sports bag. 

Ozymandias slaps key lime pie in his face and forces him to stir awake. It’s been a solid hour since the rest of the team has left. The locker room is deadly silence. Like a missile is about to disperse in the air and the world will rock to his feet in failure. Kiyoomi isn’t waiting for Atsumu, then why is he still here? His index finger reopens and Kiyoomi moves on. There’s blood on his finger and he goes to the sink next to the showers to rinse the blood off(he sterilized the counter earlier, but wipes it three more times). As cold water cuts into his finger, he unseemly winces. 

Suddenly, Atsumu’s shower, the last one to the right stops. The curtain flips open and in the brutality of God, he’s a battered mess. Selfishness coughs in hindsight, you are the only one who can see this. You are special. 

No you are not Kiyoomi, his mother whispers. 

Atsumu appears tired, more tired than before. His eyes swell like pufferfish, most likely from the lack of sleep that he stays up at ungodly hours. The edges of his eyes seem red, he was a bruised mess in front of God, and Ozymandias took the opportunity to beat the shit out of him. He doesn’t want to ask what’s wrong because Kiyoomi is not a compassionate person. There’s also only a white wrapped towel around Atsumu’s hips, and Kiyoomi hastily returns to washing the blood of his index finger. 

Atsumu ignores him. Kiyoomi ignores him back. That was a first. 

*

Plentifully, the days move forward, the locker room incident is deemed forgettable and Atsumu returns to breaking in his apartment as normal. Kiyoomi continues to kick him every couple of times just for the spite of it. Metamorphosis is a double-wielded sword, it stabs him in the heart at point blank range, then dutifully cradles his broken chest to heal the wounds it created. 

Kiyoomi eventually leaves a place mat and an extra chair at the kitchen table for Metamorphosis who gladly takes its seat. Atsumu hasn’t formally met Metamorphosis, he’s seen it in it’s different minuscule forms around Kiyoomi’s apartment. 

The next day, Kiyoomi wakes up to see Metamorphosis looming over his bed. Then he proceeds to clean his bathroom thirty-two times in alleviation, bleach staining his band aids, and he throws away three anti-anxiety pills locked away in the (dirty) white cabinet above the toilet. 

Metamorphosis shoulders him from behind and asks, Are you ready? 

*

Well, are you? You have achieved the reputation and caliber of misery that narrates the planet earth. Are you thrilled? 

Kiyoomi does not answer. 

*

Today Atsumu does not break into his apartment, it’s not necessary since Kiyoomi is the one who lets him in. He's already showered beforehand, given that an hour previous, they both just returned from a vigorous evening practice. Atsumu harmlessly microwaves popcorn without anyone spontaneously combusting. He plops himself on the other side of the cushion without any regard to Kiyoomi who might become airborne from the impact when he sat down. 

His popcorn wobbles in his not-steady hands, and he gives a reassuring smile that definitely wasn’t reassuring. 

“Why are we watching a horror movie?” Kiyoomi’s bandaged finger pauses at the start button. Most of their hall is asleep, leaving them two alone, in the dark. 

Atsumu’s smile is unreadable, giving the more ambiguous glint in the pitch black room. “Are ya scared Omi-kun, I didn’t take ya to be sucha’ scaredy cat.” 

I’m not scared. The dark just fazes him. Too much. But he’d rather stick a (sterilized) needle in his eye before Atsumu finds out and bends the discovery to fit his sticky palms. “I’ve never watched a horror movie before?” He can practically see Atsumu’s jaw drop like a dumbass, and he snatches the remote control from Kiyoomi. 

“Well that’s about to change.” 

*

They start the movie. It’s trashy to say the least. Atsumu must’ve chosen a random slasher movie from the garbage bin that’s how bad it is. It’s gory, too gory for starters. The main character’s are idiots but that’s a given, considering Atsumu Miya has a horrendous selection of ideologies stored in that microscopic sized brain. Everything about the whole setting is fake and unbelievable. It’s a foreign film with Japanese subtitles but Kiyoomi can make out the bare minimum. The plot is uneven, bouncing back to back with ten different plots all filled with gaping holes. 

After the first three people get brutally murdered, Kiyoomi yawns and through the pea sized light that distributes on Atsumu’s face, he seems horror-stricken at Kiyoomi words. “What do ya mean? This is a literary masterpiece.” 

Kiyoomi aimlessly points at the teenage girl screaming while the masked killer slashed her throat, fake blood oozing all over the bed. “This is so fake, and the girl had a good twenty seconds to run away. But she stayed to watch her boyfriend get killed.” he comments. 

“It’s all about the element of surprise Omi-kun. The suspense, everything about the movie is brilliant. Don’t be a party pooper and ruin the movie.” Atsumu chucks a popcorn kernel at his face, and Kiyoomi glares at him, relying on hope that his meticulously threaded eyebrows might fall off. 

Kiyoomi sits through the movie, and watched another girl get killed by a giant chainsaw. Atsumu’s back straightens like a plank of wood, he’s deep into the movie. Balls of luminosity shine at his pupils, turning his shit-colored eyes into a darker shade of dung. How poetic Kiyoomi. By now, both of their popcorns are left empty, and the climax of the movie sets in motion as the masked killer is unveiled. 

It turns out to be the crazy ex-girlfriend. “I knew it.” Atsumu clicks his tongue rapidly in anticipation. 

Kiyoomi is not surprised, nor does he care. It’s 3 am when the movie ends. Kiyoomi stands up for the ending credits and jumps to turn on the living room lights. You are standing near the entrance of your apartment, bathing in radiation or fury, whichever one is more exhausting to see Atsumu fast asleep on your couch. You deeply debate whether or not to wake him up and throw him out. Your one-sided debate ends without any hair-pulling, name calling and slamming doors. 

Kiyoomi is not crazy. Atsumu never leaves. Maybe Kiyoomi has gone a little mad after all. 

*

Kiyoomi wakes up late. The apartment smells like burning toast. Then he remembers Atsumu, the shitty horror movie. That’s right, he stayed over. He feels like smashing his forehead against the closest wall, his temple throbbing and he fumbles out of bed to reach for his prescription. One drops into his lap, and he shakes the container. Kiyoomi slumps back, his kitchen is probably burning and he ran out of medication. 

Pots and plates clang and Kiyoomi throws his comforter aside to face the morning yonder. Behold, his kitchen is not burning, he does not need the fire extinguisher that he may or may not be discreetly holding behind his back. The kitchen is clean, not pristine but sufficient. Atsumu has awoken, serving breakfast, in his kitchen. Atsumu Miya stands soaking in sweating sunlight, a spare apron wrapped around his waist. it definitely did not have written on the front ‘kiss the cook’ in red cursive that his mother also supplied as another unopened housewarming gift. 

“What are you doing in my kitchen?” 

Atsumu skillfully flips a set of eggs from the frying pan onto a plate as Kiyoomi approaches. “Good morning to ya too. Breakfast?” he offers like he’s a flight attendant asking if you want peanuts to go with your club soda. No, what the fuck he replies. 

Atsumu frowns but slides the plate to Kiyoomi. “Yer not a morning person I take it.” Kiyoomi does not appreciate the sight of Atsumu Miya freely cooking eggs in his kitchen, or wearing that ugly apron. 

“Why are you in my kitchen?” he repeats, and Atsumu does not reply, instead he shakes his unbrushed hair, flattened from the absence of a pillow that paid the price for crashing on Kiyoomi’s couch(without first-hand consent). Kiyoomi does not want Atsumu in his kitchen, it’s unsettling. 

But you could get used to it, Metamorphosis asked. 

Atsumu sneaks a piece of toast from the toaster and reigns on as if everything is normal. But it’s not, and Kiyoomi shoves down the sudden urge to empty his stomach on the kitchen island. “Just eat the damn eggs Omi-kun.” he insists. 

“Miya.” 

“Kiyoomi.” 

He curls his lips, Atsumu uses his name in vain and vengeance like a curse boiling his inside and cracking his bones. “Don’t call me that.” 

“Then open yer mouth and fucking eat the eggs I made for you.” 

*

Kiyoomi has yet to kick the demon out of his apartment. There must be something wrong with him. He quickly grabs his laptop while Atsumu cleans the dishes he dirtied under the supervision of Kiyoomi. You type ‘What does it mean if you keep opening the door for your enemy made frenemy from high school that’s now your teammate into your apartment?’ and feed the question to the search engines awaiting mouth. 

Many extremely unhelpful answers pop up: what the fuck, why is that so oddly specific? Murder your teammate-that answer begin to list reveal ways to get away with murder and Kiyoomi shuts his laptop close. 

So what does it mean?

You drill the answer you found in the deepest pits of hell, and plant it like a chip in your brain. 

Nothing, it means absolutely nothing. 

*

Kiyoomi meets Metamorphosis again. It’s indeed unfortunate but in consolation, he cleans his room for the third time in the day. It’s a friday night, and there’s no practice today leaving Kiyoomi an empty apartment. The scab heals eventually, and he uses pre wrap for the new wound located on the split of his palm. It bleeds for five minutes as Kiyoomi sits on the toilet seat, simply contemplating. The toilet seat is warm and Kiyoomi’s blood seeps into his fingernails. Metamorphosis stops him from moving on, and he irritatedly scratches the wound for thirty seconds. 

You want to move on, but Metamorphosis builds a boundary between you and the truth. The truth waves good-bye with fluid-like arms similar to the inflatable tube man that you see at the car dealership in the countryside. Kiyoomi does not begin to spiral, that is for the unkind. Kiyoomi is neither unkind nor bound by benevolence. 

You don’t move on.

You contemplate texting Shouyou to bring over extra band aids, contemplate calling the pharmacist to refill your medication. You don’t contemplate not calling Atsumu Miya. contemplation sticks like the germs living on his skin, Kiyoomi itches and you ask yourself; can you move on. 

It’s easy, do not overthink. You will never move on. 

*

Kiyoomi truly believes he’s been hexed. He should consult his resident psychic, or just ask himself. Why do their meetings keep on occurring in the middle of the night? He supposed before yearning and seeking for the answer in himself, he could question the perpetrator. 

There’s a knock on his balcony that he rarely uses. But he manages to keep it clean like the rest of his apartment. Kiyoomi should grab the closest weapon in case there’s a serial killer on the loose. But at this point in his life, he may as well sacrifice himself to the murderer.

The knock doesn’t cease, and the two taps on the glass happen again. Kiyoomi flips over his comforter to confront his killer. That’s one obnoxious killer for sure. He whips open the curtains and Atsumu-

Atsumu, what the hell? Upon finally getting discovered grins wields childish, playing hide and seek on his fifth birthday and being found under the kitchen table after quite some time. All he needs is a birthday boy cap and a few wiggling teeth.

Kiyoomi can get the job done. 

But the grin is fake, just like the special effects in the horror movie. The smile is forged, he’s forcing it. Even Kiyoomi who is blind to how Atsumu’s mood falters on his off days can recognize the wistfulness narrowed on his sculpted cheeks that’re probably carved by the devil. 

Kiyoomi pushes the balcony door open, but just enough for him to squeeze by. “We haveta’ stop meeting like this Omi-kun.” his eyelids are moist and dance around the moon. “People’ll start to talk.” 

“You’re the one standing in the balcony of my apartment.” he points out. Atsumu harshly laughs, full of seething hiss and eager pain. 

You are split into two choices, let in the boy/man/challenger of god who's been birthed with a heavy heart or watch him suffer-divided by the thin panel of glass that should shatter from the vibrancy of the tension that stirs in the mystery cauldron. “I forgot how harsh ya can be sometimes,” Atsumu’s finger fidget. 

“How did you get up here anyway? What are you, Spiderman?” Atsumu steeples his fingers, leaning against the railing connecting the glass door and Kiyoomi’s remaining place of privacy. 

Atsumu’s mouth is full of clashing teeth, and an intimation of a smile. He fails terribly. “I’m flattered Omi-kun, do ya wanna see my spidey senses?” 

“Are you drunk?”

“No.” he does not push further. Nor does he want him to elaborate. “What do you want Miya?” Atsumu parts his lips, perfectly chapped and licks his upper lip. Kiyoomi inhales, what does he do next?

Atsumu speaks and Kiyoomi is confused. He sits in a pool of swallowing darkness, and chooses. 

“Wait here.” 

*

According to Webster’s dictionary, the official definition of admiration is to have a feeling of respect and approval. Kiyoomi cannot dig out even a morsel of respect in the pit of emotions at the bottom of his stomach. Kiyoomi cannot bring him to hurl his remaining sliver of respect and dedicate it in the form of a love ballad for Atsumu Miya. 

Kiyoomi does not approve even of the coexistence of Atsumu; Atsumu-and the graying altar he appeases. Kiyoomi does not approve of the way he licks his lips before he throws the ball into the air as soon as the whistle blows. He does not approve of the way he improperly speaks his name. Kiyoomi still has no clue what he approves or respects of Atsumu. 

Not his smile. Or his grin that seems to find a secret back door to chip away a small fraction of Kiyoomi’s life force. 

Atsumu is a leader. He can abide by and swear in the testimony of the sacred affair between Atsumu and the volleyball court. He’s certain he’s already sold his soul for the sport he loves the most. Kiyoomi wishes he could do the same, but their morals of passion will always go unmatched. 

Kiyoomi does admire tenacity, just not his. He never specified whose perseverance or leadership he views from the same side of the net. 

Kiyoomi has lost his sight, and not even Metamorphosis can save him now. 

*

After Atsumu fully resonates the persona of spiderman with his dumb adventures of visiting Kiyoom’s apartment balcony, the debris of his poignancy drifts in the air and the glee that once lived on Atsumu’s face evaporates. Kiyoomi does not search for it, it is not his exploration to follow. 

He visits his apartment less, becomes more jumpy, more distant. Now this is typical Atsumu-in-a-funk-so-leave-me-alone-behavior, nothing that Kiyoomi isn’t capable of ignoring. Kiyoomi should know better than to interfere. He takes longer showers. Every moment when he’s not off the court, he finds him picking at his nails. Kiyoomi’s seen the habit before, but Atsumu’s resilient fingers are not meant to be torn apart by vultures and anxiety. Simple things cause him to be easily infuriated. The boy who challenges God and loses owns up to his defeat for the first time and collapses ill under mysterious circumstances. Then he realizes that he can no longer call Atsumu a boy, because he’s a grown adult with a mind that wonders like a lost child at the mall. 

Atsumu also developed a habit of tugging hair, under the parallel universe of his sanity, Atsumu would never do this. He tugs his hair while he’s thinking on the court, a quick action before determining the next play. He pulls on the pee-colored locks while calling his brother Osamu. He’s been doing that a lot recently, calling his brother. He’s met him a few times, a warped version of Atsumu, just with a different, equally unpleasing hair color and less provocative than his brother. 

Kiyoomi notices how he’s desperately in love with Shouyou. He also notices Atsumu’s heart getting broken. This is his secret to chew up and swallow. 

But that's when he first met Atsumu. It’s not like he and Atsumu share their deepest secrets while painting their nails and flipping through gossip magazines, they’re not on that level of friendship. Not even close. 

“Miya, you've been playing off today.” he didn’t mean to ridicule him, but it was an observation. Atsumu drinks up his words like it’s the last drop of water on earth and spits it back. 

Atsumu and his uneven, unshaven fingernails clench, stabbing into the soft skin of the inside of his hand. “Omi-kun.” he begins, breathing ragged, “leave me alone will ya,” You would love to, but there’s a nagging burst of persistence exploding in his chest and you can’t make it stop. 

You let him go, it’s alright, it wouldn’t be the first time. 

*

Metamorphosis sits on it’s rocking hair, soothing birth in the crook of its arms. Kiyoomi does not move on. He recognizes that he may never move on. He wears an attachable bond to Metamorphosis and Kiyoomi will never be free. He’s begun to accept the truth. But will Atsumu?

You cannot purge Metamorphosis and continue to set an extra place mat for them. You will breathe normally, set yourself on an everlasting path of expectancy and patience. You will repeat the incantation to find solitude and wash your hands thirty-two times. You will run out of band aids and next borrow Bokuto’s pikachu bandaids which he is less willing to give. You will not watch Atsumu climax into the similar spiral you’ve sat and watched destroy growth for the past months. 

You will listen for the door for the third time of the week. You will hear the rapid knocking that expels in three seperate repetitions. And what if you jump up, and run to the door, what do you hope to find? Metamorphosis will hold you back and remind you of your place. 

Kiyoomi has done this part a million times, he’s memorized every step down to the quick. He wakes up from a nightmare, but the nightmare that treads in your sleep and waits for your darkest fears to arrive at your doorstep. Kiyoomi walks steadily and slowly to the door, he does not need to peek through the hole, he’s certain of the stranger who is no longer a stranger, and not a foe. 

“Omi-kun.” submerged below the seas of rocky caves, you find a seashell. Your name is no longer an echo of a teasing threat. Atsumu’s eyes fleet around the room nervously, and his hands wiggle together. “Are you busy?”

It’s the middle of the night. He does not say this, because they both know and neither wish to speak, worried that the other will run. “Why are you here?”

Atsumu’s beautifully battered lips concave a charismatic smile. “Do you mind if I come in, I-” he pauses, flinching for every word he dares to say is cursed. 

And if he moves on, will Atsumu be there too? Will Atsumu continue to challenge and become heartlessly crushed by God. he already knows his answer. And so does Atsumu, otherwise he wouldn't be barely standing, battering his eyes shamelessly through the pain in front of Kiyoomi’s door. 

The door widens, he extends the olive branch and Kiyoomi lets Metamorphosis extend his arms in greeting. You will finally let him. For good. 

“Come inside.” 

  
  


*

You watch the world go by, the sun rises every morning and loses a fighting battle against the moon as it rises in the night. You don’t fight battles that are not meant for you, but you fight your own. Birth wraps itself in chaos, it begins with the manifestation of the boy who turns seventeen and believes he has the capabilities to challenge God on the wooden court. Chaos grows into a lovely young man who limps with a walking stick, and charms its way into misery and havoc. 

You will invite chaos into your home. 

*

Chaos does not leave, and you do not ask. You do not ask questions and are left in the maggots of pure annihilation. 

What will you do now, you wonder. 

*

And you wait for chaos to return. 

**Author's Note:**

> hello you have reached the end. and with that, lemme tell ya story. i started this fic abouta a month ago, not for sakuatsu week but for myself bc for all the sakuatsu art Ive drawn, I yet had not written a single fic for them. then it came to me in a fever dream that I wanted to writing a getting together fic and write about Sakusa and his mysophobia but in a different way. I wanted to convey a language between his mysophobia and how it begins to affect atsumu and his behavior. I wanted to show that Atsumu himself is not perfect. did I achieve it, pls lmk :) and if you are a literary worm like me, then you might've caught the Ozymandias reference, I was reading it in english class and decided to throw it in, there's also an osamu dazai reference as well. the title is from let them eat chaos by kate tempest. I hope you found this fic decent enough, it was very fun to write from Sakusa's POV and dig deep into his mind. 
> 
> if you enjoyed this like I enjoyed writing this, don't be shy to comment and let me know if you liked this, I enjoy hearing ur wonderful comments. or dont be afraid to give a kudos/bookmark. tysm for reading and i'll see you soon. 
> 
> feel free to follow my [twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/sarahartzzz) for more updates
> 
> You can also follow my writing twitter acc hehe  
> [twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/atsuhinass__)


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